She knows when she's beaten. In this case, comprehensively so.

Fuck, he fight like an animal. A caged bear. A beast. Her flesh aches and screams where countless blows have rained down upon it, and sweat tumbles in visible rivulets down the subtle swell of her muscles. Her limbs are weak, her skin trembling with exhaustion. Her ears pivot, circle, then flop subserviently to the side. Her eyes - which had previously sought out his, to witness the fire in them - drop and avoid his gaze, acknowledging him as superior. Her head lowers a fraction, the proud arch of her neck wilting like a flower scorched by the sun.

She submits. She has submitted often in recent times; some when she's been beaten by a better opponent on the day (Archibald, Ampere) and some when she's accidentally on purpose softened her blows and weakened her resolve because the prospect of getting the dick was just so much more appealing than another battle victory (Tembovu, Deodat, Reginald). Never has her submission felt as absolute as this. Never has she felt so thoroughly outclassed, like a rat desperately clawing at the fur of a lion. Never has she felt that, on a different day, with different conditions and different luck, she couldn't have risen victorious.

She is under no illusions. This man - this brute of fire, muscle and strength - is simply better than her. She's never known anything like it; she's never felt so useless.

But, oddly, the thought does not dismay her. There's a point past which there is little use in lamenting; she can simply sit back and accept that this man, this creature, is once-in-a-lifetime. He's....there are no words.

She wants him.

Like for him, fighting is directly linked to lust for the silver soldier. The former flows seamlessly into the latter - literally, for Nyx, since she requires her suitors to defeat her in order to bed her. As a result, the two things are closely matched in her mind, and it's sometimes hard to differentiate one from the other. This battle in particular had been highly charged, so now the aftermath is equally so. She's painfully, deliciously aware of his proximity, of his smell, the sweaty, musky reek of stallion.

Dominus' voice is a warning growl in her mind. "Don't do it. You know what happen. Cubs." As she always does, she blocks him from her mind. It is not every day a girl has the chance to bed a warlord. Does that ungodly stamina and strength serve him well off the battlefield, too? She owes it to womankind to find out.

She throws caution to the wind, and shuffles closer to the giant dun. Her gaze is still submissively lowered, her posture exuding defeat, and yet there's an unmistakeable spark in her dipped eyes and husky hint in her tones. "So....about that breakfast..." Her voice is a coquettish purr, and her aching, trembling flesh shudders in delight.